


Three Incantations.

by orphan_account



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Once Upon A Time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 06:45:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 17,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumpelstiltskin realizes magic cannot fix this issue.  For once in his life, it can truly make it worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meditor, Meditatus.

Magic is a crutch; stronger than a cane.

Even in this world, spells and unctions confound me. My walls are leaved in words that grant richness and longevity. My meals dressed in purple potions; my skin steamed under hot smoke that smooths out the wrinkles and carries my mind to infinite knowledge. I am surrounded by hearts that beat outside of their chests, and bodies that can move from place to place with a snap. You need no love, no legs, when magic is your servus. And then, after you have all the gold coins, the talismans, the endless luxuries you could ever desire... you find somebody who is more powerful than magic. You discover a single set of vital organs and the right chemicals, and they can perform miracles without a whisper or a drop from the vial.

Ma Belle.

There is no magic stronger, or more pure, than speaking Belle's name to her.

Magic comes with a price. Mortality comes with a risk. You always have a choice with magic: you can harness it, or you can let it pass you by and refuse its consequences. When it comes to loving another, you do not have a choice. Even if you bar your heart from her, lock her in a cell, or live a world apart, you have not chosen not to harness her. She lives, even more persistently, within your flesh. You are never free from the risk that your body chooses for you. And you have no control when it comes to confronting that risk. It is not your decision whether or not your body ends up broken.

Whether a cup ends up shattered on the ground.

Belle doesn't remember me.

Incantations on my lips, and she rejects my kiss.


	2. Separate Warrants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided I had more to say with this story than just a drabble.

Icicles fell from the roof of Rumpelstiltskin's door as he pried it from its hinges.

He hadn't been home for ages; the house was glazed in a thin sheet of ice that has trickled from the recent snowfall and frozen over. It wasn't only his visits with Belle that have kept him away. He's accustomed to not returning home, as he'd composed a make-shift version of it in his shop: a bed, a suitcase of clothes, and curtains to conceal his privacy have always suited him.

But today he had a need for magic that he could neither rattle out of an ancient jewelry box, nor sip from a beaker steaming with memories.

As he struggled to free the door from its icy exposure his hands shook, causing his cane to slip from his hands and onto the porch. "God damn it," he hissed with helpless force under his tongue, shoving his tired body against the door. His hands rested on the cold wood, pressing hard enough to splint his skin. "Please, just please."

"Mr. Gol- Rumpelstiltskin? Do you need help?" The hesitant voice broke through his erratic whimpering, causing him to hastily recompose his attitude and snatch the cane from where it cluttered to the ground.

"Yes?" he responded curtly, a moment of surprise halting him when he noticed that the voice was Snow. Infrequently had they crossed paths in this world. Her hair was now cropped and welded into a sleek, black fringe, some style a princess never bore in their old kingdom. And yet she still appeared just as delicate as she had even when dressed in warrior's clothes: like a many-leaved branch for a bird to sing on.

Rumpelstiltskin gave up the door. His cane lifted his weight as he knelt down on it, hunching forward to make out the princess's features.

"Oh," he smoothed. "It's you. Well, I'm pleased that you have your prince to flaunt about you, but I'd rather not be exposed to such fairy tale pettiness. And I can manage a door quite well, thank you." He flashed her a gold-toothed, snarky grin and turned back towards the house, still unsure how he could support himself and get in.

Snow folded her hands in a huffed manner, offended as she tromped up the stairs after him. "I'm not talking about the door," she tested, her voice wary though suggestive.

Trying to feign disinterest, Rumpelstiltskin faced her once more, confronting her steady eyes.

"Belle," she spoke, a tinge of hope lining her eyes and the tone of her voice. "I can help Belle come home with you."

Disbelief shrouded him. There was too much in that offer; first, he could not believe it to be true. But more importantly, he could not accept. The price to pay for it would be too great. If he were on the other end of his bargain, he would have been wrought with glee. This was sincere weakness, and he was malleable enough to be tricked out of all his power and wealth.

Anger consumed him as soon as the thought touched his awareness. It captured his veins in their weak state and connected them to blind rage, exerting every measure of strength his body could still manage. "Why?" he quarried, his voice rising in irrational anger. "So that you can go home to your family while I spend the rest of my days with a girl that I love, yet will never even know me to my name? So that you can put me in debt while I continue to lose everything I have? Do you think I-"

"Rumpel," she cried, breaking his words as they left his lips. "No!" She was wide-eyed, clearly shocked at his defiance. "No, I just want to help you! I was separated from Charming for a long, long time. I understand it. It's something we all have dealt with. But you don't have to for long, and Belle shouldn't have to be alone either. If anybody is capable of coping with this, it's you!"

Rumpelstiltskin edged his door open with his elbow. Behind him, the darkness of his home shrouded him, beckoning him to curl up inside the aphotic cavern and match his impossible situation with quiet, blunt, and infinite shadow.

"You," he argued, pointing the bottom edge of his cane to push her from the boundaries of his presence, "You are using this golden opportunity to seize the beast of Storybrooke and turn him into a broken man."

He expected Snow's face to turn towards plighted scorn; for her expression to curl with deception knowing he was not going to appease her. But in its place, a gentle, sad smile grew on her lips. She moved them and spoke, "No." Sweetly; nearly regretfully.

"No, Rumpel," she mused. "The only time you aren't a beast is when you're with Belle. When you're a man, you're... you're not so bad."

She smiled and turned, leaving him a stunted figure on his doorstep.

"W-wait," he called after her, "Where are you going?"

Snow smiled, though he could not see through the back of her neck. "I'm going to do what I promised!" she yelled back, raising her hand in salute. "This isn't a deal, Mr. Gold. It's a favor."  
‹ Chapter 1


	3. Belle's Literature.

When Snow walked through the door of the hospital, pulling down the edges of her strawberry-red crotchet hat, she saw Belle curled up on a green plastic chair, her knees drawn tightly to her chest. Her hands clutched a book, its pages turned towards her eyes.

Snow smiled, then walked quickly to her side.

"So you're reading again?" she posed, the quiver of a smile against her lips.

Belle gazed up from her book, her eyes lingering on the words so heavily that she had to pry them off the page. A hazy cloud filled her brain as she took in the sight of Snow. Some concept of understanding was located somewhere in her mind- she just knew it, but she couldn't make sense of any of it.

She forced a smile and nodded, more frustrated than anything.

When Snow didn't respond, Belle nodded again. "Yeah, I... I heard that I liked to read a lot. I guess that was my thing." She shrugged, noncommittal. "I guess there are some things your memories don't dictate."

She looked back down at the open book. Frankenstein, leaved on the edges with gold lining. Despite how old fashioned- (well, most book collectors would use the word antique) the binding of the book was, the story was the same as it would be in any volume. Belle had no idea who had even given this to her. It was just lying beside her hospital bed.

"This is a sad book," she added quietly, closing the cover over the story. "It's about a creation who is just... pieces of a man, but those pieces make him a monster. And nobody understands the human being that makes him up." She glanced up and down from Snow's face to the ground, her expression helplessly solemn. "It reminds me of something."

Snow smiled, her face weakly lit, but her heart feeling more confident. She reached out to Belle, putting her hand on the girl's shoulder.

"Don't worry," she whispered. "Just keep reading. Maybe you'll find something in there."

Snow had risen and was ready to leave, but she stopped herself suddenly, a wave a sincerity coming over her.

"You're not the first person to lose your memory, Belle," she comforted, leaning back against a wooden coffee table that was scattered on the surface with colored magazines and unopened tubes of tapioca pudding. "My husband did too, and he didn't remember me for a long time. And I don't want you tell you what is real and what isn't, but if there is somebody who meant a lot to you when had your memories, they're going to fight for you until you do remember. That might be scary, but Belle..." She sighed. "Take it for what it is. Love."

Belle squinted, cocking her head to the side.

"I really don't think you understand."

Snow smiled sadly, shaking her head. "No. I don't. But neither do you, Belle. You have to give your true self a chance."

Belle nodded without really showing she agreed at all, and sunk back down into her book. She could make out the sounds of Snow's boots as they walked out into the icy parking lot.


	4. Calligraphy.

It was uncommon for Mr. Gold's study to ever be locked.

And yet, to get inside today he had to utilize a rounded gold key, which clicked in the lock and sprung the white oak door inwards towards the desk.

The mahogany table stood on two legs; it almost seemed minimal for the amount of of weight he'd piled onto it. There were books and folders organized into rows: alphabetized, Dewey Decimal'd, and split up into categories.

He had her notebooks opened to random pages, paperweights marking the sentences where he left off. Parts of him felt uncomfortable about searching through her private world, but the rest of him just felt desperate. Beneath the crystal and glass weights were hints that might help him find a way to her. But most of her entries were synopses of each day, reflections of books, or dreams.

He limped over to the file cabinet next to the desk, his cane making definite thuds on the floorboards beneath him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the blue-and-red shimmer of colored ink. Quartet tickets. They had shuffled out of the paper folder he'd bought them in when he presented them to Belle.

Angrily, he stumbled to the desk and swept them away with a growl, disgust on his face as he watched them flutter down onto the floor.

Rumpel shook off the indiscretion and stabilized himself. Leaning against the cane for support, he started fishing through the folders in the cabinet, looking for a manila sheet of paper located towards the middle of the set. To most people, the folders looked like they weren't organized in any special way. But he had design it so the middle files were most important, and the outer ones on both sides less so. Towards the back were files that he intended to use at some point; the ones in the front were documents he had decided to only utilize if necessary.

He was leafing through the ones in the front.

He finally found it. Grinning cynically, he snatched the document it out of its folder, his teeth sharp with desperate appeasement.

The reason Rumpel locked his door wasn't to protect himself from having these files stolen. It was about not wanting to see anything that had to do with her- it was too painful. He wanted to have to struggle to open the door, a warning for the sharp sadness that would greet him as soon as he laid eyes on the visual memories of Belle's literature.

But now it was okay. He could toss the key into the desk and leave his study wide open.

Smiling, he scanned the paper that was crinkling in his tight grip: a document of all the health codes ever violated in that hospital, all which had never been followed up on. It was enough to shut the entire place down.

Belle had been legally required to remain there for followup inspections, one of those annoying _codes_ that they happened to respect this time.

But this file changed that. Belle wasn't going to be away from him for long.


	5. Pieces of Man.

Dr. Whale idled inside Belle's room, checking for hints between the mattress and sheets of her bed, then under the piles of literature on the lamp table. The dent in her blanket indicated that she had risen not long ago, but hardly being dawn, she could have only wandered out into the lounge area.

He absentmindedly picked a novel up from her bedside table. _Frankenstein._ Narrowing his eyes, he began flipping through the pages, looking for hints about where his story had left off- and how it was cataloged to end.

"Victor."

The voice started him, and he quickly returned the book to his place, almost feeling like reading his own fate was something to feel guilty about.

"You can call me by my pseudonym." He was going to make an elusive comment about wanting to forget the past, but when he turned to face Rumpelstiltskin, silence was immediately a thing he coveted. "Mr. Gold. As you can see, Belle isn't in."

Rumpel gave a curved smile. "Always formal," he mused, steadying his cane onto the ground as he brought his manila envelope in front of him, pressing it against his chest. "Do we even want to discuss the details, or can you just agree to give me what I want?"

Dr. Whale frowned, _much_ more interested in the piece of writing that Mr. Gold held. He may have been brought here from his failures in the past, but he was a man, not a combination of pieces like his monster was. And yet, he was still subject to his composition changing because of events yet to come. Mr. Gold was a man known to expertly do that to a person.

Holding out the file, Rumpel smiled knowingly. "I want Belle. I know what's wrong with her, and you're not going to fix it. She needs to be home with me."

Dr. Wale cautiously took the paperwork, a gleam of skepticism in his eyes. "Well," he countered, regarding the envelope tentatively, "I would disagree and say that Belle needs to be under observation by professionals, but I'll let you know if that's my official opinion in just a moment."

He slid the papers out into his hands, scanning the lines in front of him.

_Illicit Vicodin prescription distributed to patient ID #41025._

_Inadequate supervision of contract staff._

_Undocumented ER log on 8/5/94._

_Inappropriate patient transfer to level 1 trauma center._

"I can't even think about what would happen if these conditions got out," Rumpel spoke, his eyes on his fingernails. "Or what would happen to this town if the outer world found out this unlicensed hospital was making such severe misjudgments." He smiled. "I can already see them driving you across the town line and to the nearest sheriff station. How well will it go over when you start _playing dumb_ , as if you couldn't remember a thing?"

Mouth dry, Dr. Whale looked up. "I believe that Belle is free to go, Mr. Gold," he announced, smiling vaguely as he tucked the file under his arm.

As an afterthought, he picked up the _Frankenstein_ book and slid it into the envelope for later. After all, it couldn't hurt to remember exactly who he was.

"I'm glad you agree." Rumpel bowed his head and followed his cane out into the foyer.

Belle was coiled up again, her head tucked into her knees this time. Her green hospital gown, (though not totally required to wear) covered most of her body, though her toes peeked through the bottom. They curled into the cracks of the leather chair, from which yellow foam was spurting.

Rumpel looked for her peaceful undulation; the rise of breath against her chest and the careful sound of her exhalation. But she was stark.

He walked towards her, his cane clipping the ground. "Belle?" he asked smoothly, bending down to her side so he rouse her from her dreams. So close to her, he was able to realize she wasn't moving. Or breathing. Or a shade of a blue that was normal.

He grabbed his cane and started yelling, panic gripping him too tightly to even know what he was saying.

Dr. Whale tore through Belle's room with the bulging envelope in his hands, yelling for staff, and trying to keep Rumpel from making any premature moves.

Rumpel felt like Frankenstein's creation; he knew what it meant to be in Dr. Whale's hands, life and death and everything in between resting on that one man's medical decisions. Pieces of him fell all over the floor.


	6. Expunged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters possibly not coming every day from now on; life is demanding. :c

Belle's eyes were closed. Her red-brown hair was tousled all over the pillow, a slight cushion to the plastic tube that run across her face and into her nostrils.

Rumpel followed Dr. Whale as he brought his clipboard to Belle's bedside, checking off the necessary altercations made to her condition. He peered over the list, his footsteps heavy.

"Why weren't you taking proper care of her?"Rumpel growled, all of his actions coming off loudly. "This is all your fault for not watching her."

Dr. Whale was annoyed. He turned around sharply, snapping "Need I remind you that you were just about to deny her medical care entirely?" He sighed, looking back down at the paper. "Regardless, it was cerebral hypoxia that caused it. There is little that could have been done to prevent it." He tempered his tone, trying to treat Mr. Gold as a regular patient.

"Oxygen deprivation," Rumpel interpreted. Belle's eyes were puffy and red, rimmed with the blue color of veins that were snaking along her skin.

"I'm going to guess it was a mini-stroke," Dr. Whale spoke, checking Belle's bedside setup to be sure she was breathing normally now. "We both know she's gone through a lot in the past couple of days. There are many indicators that shock caused this."

Rumpel shook his head, confusion and concern fighting to dominate his expression. "But all of a sudden, when she just woke up...? That- surely something must have _happened_." He felt like he did back when his life was composed of Bae and the fear of losing him. He was jumpy, out of control of himself, and all his power drained, leaving a vulnerable voice that shook from his chest.

Dr. Whale regarded Mr. Gold's question, and though the point was viable, it was impossible to examine until Belle had woken. He referred his attention to the clipboard and walked towards the hallway, making notes in the blank spaces.

Rumpel was just starting to stiffen himself to follow Dr. Whale out when a movement crossed his vision.

"Wait!" he yelled, holding a hand in the doctor's direction. "She's moving."

His calls overlapped the rustling of the bed sheets: Belle's hand curling the blanket between her fingers. And then her eyes fluttered open, a dull gray, lifeless beneath her lashes. But then they filled in with color as she looked around the room, her vision hazy and her voice wavering.

"Where am I?" she whispered, struggling to rise from the position that she was bound to.

Dr. Whale pushed Rumpel from his path and knelt down by Belle, checking the pulse in her wrist and comparing it to the hospital monitor above her.

"Who... who are you?" she exerted, gaze flicking wildly around the room. "What is any of this? Where am I?"

Rumpel's lips quivered; his head sank down and gave in to tears that welled up under his eyes. She was never going to be well enough to leave. It was a horrid thought to take her out of the hospital like this- he couldn't ever. It was stupid to believe she'd ever have any memory of him, or that taking her to his house would do more than make her hate him.

He shoved his cane angrily against the ground and turned to the door, unaware of the attention that his choleric motion had gotten. But it was her voice that made him suddenly realize all eyes were on him.

"You."

Rumpel turned around and found Belle staring into his eyes, her green irises fueled with emotions. His throat went dry, his voice empty. She remembered.

He dropped down to her, open and weak. "Belle," he answered, a helpless test to see if she really did remember.

" _Rumpelstiltskin_." But her voice was unforgiving and sharp. Her eyes too, harsh and pointed like they were condemning him.

He barely managed to speak, but he forced himself to utter "You do remember me?"

She stared at him. "I remember you making me choose between coming with you or you slaying my family. And I remember you throwing me into a cell and leaving me there for days. I thought you were trying to kill me." She aimed her eyes around the room, fear sliding over her expression. "Where are we now? Where have you taken me?"

That was all she remembered. Anything past that was gone to her. When they fell in love, when they kissed. When they rebuilt their relationship here. When they'd proved themselves so many times.

He tore from the room, feeling expunged from her life. If her memories were gone then he was nothing to her- just a villain who incidentally hurt her. As soon as he left the room, she would forget. And if he came back, she would remember who he had been to her, and hate him. It was worse than if she could remember nothing.

Blinded by grief, he pushed past another person standing at the doorway, looking in on everything going on in Belle's room. The two eyes studied Rumpel as he rushed off, crying and cursing.

The eyes turned back to Belle's room, a wicked grin attached to them.


	7. Dreams of Bells.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going out of town tonight, and won't be home for three days. :u but I shall try to write as much as I can on the road~

It was against his better judgement, but Rumpel's judgement was never something he took pride in.

He was back at the hospital. He'd shaved his profile to a neat stubble, slept the dark circles out of his eyes, and replaced his clothing with a fresh new pair of fabric. His cane was steady in his hand, and tears felt far away.

It was an eerie sort of quiescence that had taken over his body. Now that he knew for sure what Belle thought of him, and had no doubts that as gruesome as the details were, they were accurate, he didn't feel torrid chaos encompassing his emotions.

He had spoken to Snow today. She was crossed-legged on the waiting room couch beside him, flipping passively through an interior design booklet that had been placed there in an effortless attempt to help pass the time.

Belle had been in and out of sleep since yesterday afternoon.

At the moment, he learned, Belle was dozing on her bed. Anytime she opened her eyes, she seemed momentarily confused; the product of anesthesia and only half a memory to refer to.

She was off the respirator now, but it was still hooked into the wall, prepared to bring her rich oxygen the second that she might need it.

Rumpel stood up, interrupting the silent companionship that he and Snow were sharing, and walked to the receptionist desk.

The secretary, her bluish-black hair pinned to the top of her head (spliced with a pencil through the curls), glanced up from her spiral notebook, the edge of her pen chewed by her back teeth. "Mr. Gold," she spoke, using the pen for hand gestures, "Your request is pending. We're trying to keep things as calm for Belle as possible."

Rumpel nervously gripped the edge of the desk, leaning down to show off how viciously he was pleading.

"Please," he hesitantly voiced, "She's just... she's so important to me, I need to see her."

Reluctantly, the receptionist shook her head. "I'm sorry, she's just in very criti-"

"A word? Mr. Gold."

Dr. Whale's voice broke through the secretary's apology, his hand motioning for Rumpel to follow him into a secluded corner. Rumpel followed without a single deterrent. He was full of questions, but none were needed here.

Dr. Whale spoke first.

"I've been unable to contact Isabelle's father." He swallowed uncomfortably. "If that remains to be the case, I plan on assigning you the role of responsibility for her. Do you comply?" Rumpel nodded, the movement vigorous. "Good. And though you're not of biological relations with the patient, I trust this is something you won't sue me over?"

Rumpel smiled plaintively, moving on. "How is she?"

Dr. Whale hesitated. He flipped the page on his clipboard and scanned the lines before speaking outright. "It wasn't a stroke," he informed, passing the notes along to the other. "She was choked. It was severe enough for short-term oxygen loss. We detected bruises on her neck."

Reading the documented version, Rumpel's vision darted to all the information, swallowing it vaguely. "Choked...? Who would choke a young girl like Belle?"

"I suppose somebody who doesn't like her," Dr. Whale said bluntly, then reconsidered. "Or who doesn't like you."

Rumpel looked for the words to say, faces of all his enemies spiraling through his head. "Were you keeping inventory of the people who visited her?" he asked, very much distracted.

Guilt was detectable on Dr. Whale's face. "We are now," he answered.

They parted ways as soon as Dr. Whale had unlocked the key to Belle's room, exposing her tangled body, curled around white sheets that were spread out all over the bed. As sprawled as she was, she looked just like she was sleeping. Her memories- were they erased? Though her viewpoint had changed, reality was objective. Everything he remembered had happened. But in her mind, did they hide from sight, inaccessible to her? Or were they gone from her brain for good?

He fought against the sadness that told him reality was invalid if she would never recall the truth.

Her truth was different now. She must think that he was the reason they were in this new world. She must think that... that he choked her. After all, she was used to being loved and doted upon by her entire kingdom, and he was the only one she knew to be a beast.

Rumpel diffidently settled down into a chair by her bed and inched his hand close to hers. He took it, feeling the soft curve of her fingers in his palm. He was deathly afraid of stirring her.

"I'm sorry," he spoke, his voice barely a whisper. "I'm sorry because what you remember about me is my fault. You are the only person alive who has ever looked past it and forgiven me for it. But that does not change who I was."

He looked away from her, his hand resting just above hers now. "I have always been a coward. You kept fighting for me, whether you knew I wanted you or not. You always did."

Sighing, Rumpel stood. "I'll let you rest now. I don't know if it's the right thing to push you. I know you'd be much more comfortable by your own here, not bothered. I know it's going to be difficult for you to see me as anything else. But I'm not passive about you, Belle. I can't be anymore."

He placed Belle's hand back onto her pillow and carefully swept the thin blanket up over her body.

As he left, a sliver of light from the hallway fell over her bed, and she just looked like Belle. Not an uproarious, skittish Belle, but just... Belle.

Hours later, when the evening sunk into a dark twilight, Belle opened her eyes and looked around the room, feeling like somebody had penetrated the space. But everything was as it was before. She curled up into her blanket and drifted back into her dreams.


	8. Manipulation and Foresight.

Rumpel sat on the living room couch, its plushy cushions pushing against his skin, urging him to relax. Contrary to the softness, his head was in his hands, cradled between two firm sets of fingers. He could feel the callouses that poked through his flesh, different signs of the arduous situations he'd been in.

They described how he felt now: bronzed into an obvious imperfection, tough and leathery, not likely to shed at just any outcome. It would take years of mending, and even then, would be hard to forget because he would see it every time he looked at his hands.

Sometimes he wished he could just bleed and be over with it. But the miseries that compiled over the years were a firm part of him- and whatever happened with Belle, this one was likely to remain etched in his skin.

"Tea?"

Snow's voice once again harmonized the air around him and brought his head up from his knees. Her voice was soothing as she placed a tall glass of lemon tea into his hands, the condensation wetting the bruises on his skin.

She had invited him to her house, and it was actually.... looking like a _home_ now.

Their apartment was a small area cut out of a multi-family building, stocked full of items personal to her, her husband, and Emma. (If Emma even invested in such things.) It was quaint in an updated way, looking as though the coats on the door and the books on the dining tabled rotated every week.

She placed the tin plate on a table in front of the couch. It was stacked with a pitcher full of iced tea, (finished with a lemon wedge driven into the side of the glass), and accompanying glasses that were not yet filled.

Snow smoothed the emerald polka-dot skirt and sat down next to Rumpel, questions filling her face. If there was one thing she'd never be able to do, it was hide her concern for someone.

"I heard everything that happened," she spoke, keeping count of her words. "And I wanted to ask you over to know how you are."

Rumpel would have feigned being threatened by her companionship and questioned her intentions if he had not been so... _powerless_. But in her kindness, he felt as if she was all he had to rely on, and she was giving it away without asking anything in return. He couldn't force himself to even mentally question it at this point.

"I'm... afraid," he answered, pressed the edge of the glass to his lips. He swallowed and placed it onto his lap, facing Snow. "Do you remember my reputation?" he asked.

She nodded, thinking back to whole Rumpelstiltskin was. He was the most powerful person in their land, because he ruled with manipulation and foresight. His title _dark one_ was accurate. He didn't just hurt people, he would bring out the evil in them, and catalyze their actions until they felt powerless, humiliated, and stripped of their honor.

Rumpel watched the memories transpire in Snow's mind, affirming their worth.

"And now," he spoke, "Imagine that you're still stuck in that time and that's all you know of me. And on top of that, I've just taken you from your parents, threatening to let them and their kingdom die as the alternative. Then I lock you up and desert you."

Snow studied his hypothetical, pressing a hand to her mouth as she considered what could soften the memories.

"Well, what happened after that?" she quickly posed, shaking away the thoughts.

He shrugged and shook his head, studying the droplets of tea forming on the glass' rim. "She saw something in me," he explained, fingers tracing the glass. "Somehow she decided to love me. And I rejected her, but then... then Regina locked her away. And we'd just started rebuilding everything in Storybrooke when she... crossed the town line." He was washed by dread, realizing how much progress was lost to such an instantaneous mistake.

"But then," he went on, "Just as she was recovering with no memories, suddenly she's chocked and then she can remember everything up to the part where I locked her up." He gave Snow a quizzical look, which she promptly returned. "How is that possible?"

Snow shrugged, trying to think. "I don't know, maybe it had to do with her brain not getting enough oxygen that... changed things? Who would try to strangle her anyways?"

Rumpel dejectedly sighed, not knowing how to answer her.

"I have an idea." An imposing look was on Snow's face as she jumped from the chair and sauntered into the bed area.

As she shifted through the drawer of a nightstand, she called "So you said that Belle only remembers the beginning of everything, right?"

Rumpel nodded. "Yes."

"But that's not true for you."

As Rumpel agreed, Snow came back to the couch, bearing a pink-patterned notebook that she held out to the other. "And Belle loves to read," she proclaimed, proffering the spiral-bound, blank book and the blue pen that was tucked into the binding. "So you should explain it all like this."

Rumpel looked at the gift, placed his tea off to the side, and reached two hesitant hands around the book.

"You... think this can work?" he asked.

In a moment of truth, Snow regarded the situation realistically. "I don't know," she answered. "But you've spent so long making your life out of persuasion and knowledge of the future. I think it's time you utilize the past, and leave things up to the free will of others." She smiled. "And Belle will listen. That's something we know about her."


	9. Paper Plains.

He thought it would take days to prompt the words out of him, but to Rumpel's surprise, the moment he sat down with the notebook, he was able to write.

It was simple: black, leather, clasped by a flimsy magnet. There was nothing superfluous about it. Belle was not coerced by frills. He knew that if she was the person he expected her to be, she would be moved by the story, not the decorations.

Belle, he began at the top of the page, squeezing his stark handwriting between blue lines. _My life has been built on power, and all of that power was obtained by magic._ He sighed and dropped the pen, his hands rubbing his eyes wearily.

In a red-colored booth at Granny's, the scent of boiling coffee and toasted bread circled through the room. His exhaustion made him slump dejectedly into the chair, eyes barely able to focus on the words that were appearing.

At first, he'd played with the idea of writing as if it were just an independent story, not a memory. But he couldn't be noncommittal. And besides- he was too distinguishable, unable to hide behind the most abstract and vague word choices.

_I can truly say that this is the first time in my life that I cannot use magic to solve my problem. Magic and love are so often confused in this world, because love is so rare and strong that it's only fit to compare it to something that seems eldritch and impossible._

_But love is stronger._

_Magic has cured my colds, murdered for me, obtained my riches, and pieced any problems I've ever had into place._

_This is my last attempt at magic. It has destroyed people who have crossed me, and even more, it has destroyed my family, my soul, and... you. Us._

_Pay attention to my words, Belle, even if you have to read them like they're fiction. I will help you remember what happened in my castle, how you were locked away for all the years in this land, and what happened when you remembered me. Unleashing magic in this world has cost me you. And while I have a lot to owe to that magic, it isn't worth never having you again._

_This is my last attempt at magic. If you remember, please come to me._

_I love you. I'm sorry that I'm not afraid to say that._

He signed his name beneath the sheet of paper, then ripped it cleanly from its binding. It was going to go at the end of the story, he decided, after he'd explained all those details he mentioned.

He grabbed for his cane and struggled out of the booth, too tired to transcribe the emotion-provoking memories today. He threw a couple dollars beside his glass of orange juice, and limped home to fall asleep.


	10. Ornate Images.

Rumpelstiltskin was surprised to find himself still awake, incomprehensibly responsible of the fact that all these pages were filled with words. He was more than acquainted with the notebook now; most of his life was inscribed on it. Sleepily, he flipped through the pages one last time, then tucked the making-shift epilogue he'd written at the cafe between the last two pages.

Roman numerals were ticked onto the edge of each page. There were 23 of them. At the end of it, 23 provided a lot of room to fit memories and emotions between. Yet, it was also impossible to simplify so many complex feelings to that extent.

Somehow, it had been done.

Resisting the temptation to reread and tear his words apart, he laid back into his editor's chair and closed his eyes. His brain worked compulsively to tease out any information he may have forgotten to include. His explanation for her decision? Their interactions during their first months? When he let her go, and she returned to him? When in Storybrooke, they fell in love- when she had fallen across town line and lost her memory?

It was _so good_ to be able to talk to her about the night she was shot and lost all recognition of him. It was cathartic to share it with her and know magic was real to her, and she could believe in him.

His explanations could hold weight since they had come from the same place. If she believed him. If she wanted to believe in him.

Urgency raced under his veins at the thought. Part of it was the sickness of not sleeping, and that was fueled by the sticky fear of what would happen if he never had Belle his life again. It could work. _This would need to work._

A glass vial sat corked in the edge of his desk. A purple, thick liquid swirled behind the glass, steaming and sparkling visibly to keep the magic circulating. He reached out to it with rough hands, using his other fingers to flip the cover of his notebook open, exposing the words.

The cork popped off the lid by means of his teeth, exposing a pungent smell from lipid liquid. He held the side of the page down and poured purple water all over the pages in front of him, drenching the words until the paper curled and wrinkled in the wetness.

When the bottle was completely empty, Rumpel dropped it onto the desk and let it roll freely across the wood. He watched silently as the pages absorbed the potion, returning to their dry, regular state, words unaffected by the drench.

And yet they were.

Every single letter started glowing bright purple, words and phrases glimmering as if they were burned into the notebook by a fire that had never been extinguished. The ink transformed brightly; he could see the indents of words on the other pages brush against the surface of this one. Every word and phrase he wrote was a lambency filled with magic.

This potion was specific, hand-brewed. As soon as Belle read his words, she would remember the things he had written. It wasn't capable of manipulating her long term memories though. If he had written lies, for example, she would not suddenly recall them as true. (He wasn't certain what his subjective commentary would entail.) This magic would merely reveal memories she could not access, but continued to exists in her mind. It would surface them inside her.

As the ink hardened back into an unalloyed black, Rumpel hoped that he had painted his memories the way they needed to be: objective and true. She would not be able to remember the love he felt in his own body, but hopefully would recall any indications he'd shown on his face, or in his decisions.

More than anything, he hoped that telling her she had loved him was true. Because if it were, she would remember. And if she remembered that... none of the other words mattered. He would be able to get them through to her at any point beyond that.

Rumpel pressed a careful finger against one of the words. It was cold and quiet, so he shut the notebook and latched it closed.

Remnants of the day's cycle filtered through the three windows around him. Dark blue suckled across the objects in his office, not specifying if it was dawn or twilight.

Either way, it was not yet the time to visit Belle. She needed to see him exposed by bare sunlight, not cloaked by dust- euphoric or scary. She needed to know he felt comfortable being seen by her, and being scrutinized by everyone around them.

And... sleeping meant that he'd have a couple more hours to hold onto the hope that she could remember now. It meant that doubt could not grow inside him, for as long as he could keep his eyes closed. He was in between, and for the first time, it was a buffer for the pain.


	11. Our Life as Fiction.

He wasn't sure what woke him. It might have been a sound, or maybe it was just the preposterous amount of hours he'd been asleep for, but when he awoke in total darkness, Rumpel felt like the world was ending. His eyes hurt, his stomach was rolling sickly, and his throat was coated in the thick, musky taste of dehydration, paining him with each breath.

He fumbled his heavy hands across the bedpost, feeling for a bottle of water or cup of anything he might have left sitting there nights before. There was a glass, sticky by condensation, that reeked of brandy.

Without questioning the dryness of the drink, he pulled the glass into bed with him and swallowed the remains of two melted ice cubes, flavored vaguely by distilled hard liquor.

It tasted like nights without Belle. It was the taste that followed her lips, dragging him down into the dark sleep that he shared with no one.

A second pain lurched through his chest.

Rumpel stumbled to put the glass back on his nightstand, then reached around the surface for his phone. There were multiple jolts of pain tugging on his nerves: _call her_ , they played with his muscles, and _beg her to come home_ , they fired under his tongue.

Holding the phone up to his eyes, he squinted, trying to bear the glow of the screen.

The blue LED light of his phone read 3:20am, meaning he'd been asleep for nearly sixteen hours. The sickness, immobilized in his head and beating fast in his chest, didn't give him room to be surprised about it. He was afraid that he might never be able to sleep this off.

Rumpel's fingers itched dangerously close to Belle's number on speed dial. But after some time of thinking- and realizing there wasn't much more disappointment his body could handle, he scrolled into his contacts to look for Snow. He couldn't fight for Belle anymore. She had to decide, and he would expect her to come. But if she never came, he would have his answer.

Snow's phone went right to voicemail; being a normal human, she was asleep.

"Snow White," he breathed, unaware of the cracks that crept through his voice. "I need you to make Belle a final delivery. It's important."

He hung up, closing the phone into his fist. Sweat collected on his forehead, making it too hard to keep it held up any longer. He let his eyes close against the pillow and slipped away from his thoughts, the phone still in his hand, his fingers uncurling.

-

In his dreams, Belle was folded into his chest. Her back brushed against his body, pulled into him because his arms gripped her tightly, wrapping her until she fit perfectly inside his skin.

His fingers twitched in his sleep. She had been away so long that he barely could hold onto the softness of her skin or the sound of her breath. If he focused hard enough, a memory still might strike him suddenly. He might be able to remember what it felt like to be around her because of flash insight into her vanilla-scented aura or the fluctuations in her voice, but it lasted only in that second.

He was afraid that one day he'd lose the ability to hold onto it altogether.

-

Belle felt lost.

Things moved too fast for her in this place. She was told that it was disorientation from being forced into blacking out, but she knew it was the environment. She had never seen magic like this.

Strangers wearing abnormal clothing appeared on surfaces all around the building, asking her to buy things that she had never known a person to have a use for, with a completely new form a communication not involving messages or market locations. Similarly odd objects elicited beeping sounds and strange messages, and somehow, everybody else seemed to understand what they meant.

She felt like she was dissolving into the unfamiliar clothing just draped over her body, doing nothing but keeping her decent. Where were her dresses, and why did nobody find offense in the fact that her hair sprayed all around her face, tangled and disheveled?

Belle slid to the edge of the bed and threw herself from it, the off-white gown fluttering among her ankles.

She squinted her eyes at the door, trying to think where it could possibly lead. When she focused hard enough, she could distantly remember being in her father's castle, waiting anxiously for a savior. But they had gotten a con-man instead, who stole her away and locked her up.

And yet... there was so much emptiness between then and now. She felt as if there were remnants of feelings prying against the surface of her mind- there must have been a transition from his dungeon to this place, right? But she didn't feel as if events had taken place, she just sensed an emptiness where she expected to find emotions.

There was also this uncertain feeling that she had _decided_ to go with him.

Belle shook her head, wrapping her arms around her body. Of course she thought that. He was her only connection to this unfamiliar place, what else had she to hold on to?

When Belle turned the knob on her door, she found it wouldn't turn. Panic rushed through her as she remembered the countless amount of times banging on the cell door he'd thrown her in, trapped there no matter how hard she struggled. This was another one of his cells.

She let go of the door and it swung open, revealing a surprised Snow White.

"Sorry," she scrambled, rosiness speckled all over her cheeks from the cold of the outdoors. "I didn't know you were trying to turn it at the same time."

Belle blinked, stepping backwards. Her mind rushed, memories assembling themselves as she remembered Snow's infamy in their land; a fellow heir to the throne, a convict at some point, but ultimately the real queen of her land. _Belle knew her._

Snow clutched a red-wrapped parcel in her hands, but it drooped slightly as she lent in, excitedly examining Belle's face. "You _remember_ me," she grinned, her voice playing with amusement that challenged Belle's silence. "I can see it on your face, you remember."

The younger raised her head, trying to understand. "Yes... you were queen," she spoke. This Snow was wearing the same clothing that the others were, dressed inside them with confidence, as if she didn't question where they were tailored.

Her eyes narrowed and she nodded. "Of course. Right, that's what you know." She confusedly toyed with the object in her hands and then thrust it out at Belle. "Here. This is for you."

Belle took the white box into her hands, fingers immediately playing with the red bow that curled on top of it. "Thanks," she murmured, "What is it?"

Snow smiled weakly, stuffing her hands into her coat's buttoned pockets.

"Just promise me you'll get through it with an open mind, okay?" She herself had no idea what was written there, but if anybody worked with positive persuasion, Rumpel was capable of utilizing it. "Read it as fiction, he said."


	12. The Fixtures of his Heart.

She sat at her desk, reading through the pages.

She flipped through them first, calculating the amount of words she'd have to go through, trying to obtain some sort of impression of the journal by the syntax she scanned with her eyes.

Belle wanted to ask this to be explained to her, but Snow had already left. If the handwriting didn't make it clear, the signature did. This was Rumpelstiltskin's book.

She didn't know how Snow could have even gotten it. Was it plans of his that he'd documented? Would it explain where she was and what was going on? But worst of all, she was afraid of what would happen if he found out she had it.

As she settled into the leathery chair and pulled the journal into her lap, propping it with hands gripping each side, Belle felt something sigh out of her. Even in this place, books didn't [i]look[/i] like books. They were stamped with images of people and objects that looked so real, they didn't even seem like paintings anymore. And the text was so neatly placed, almost like it hadn't come from a hand.

But this was a lot like the things she was accustomed to reading. It was worn and dusty, and the cover was a mystery; she had no idea what it was about, because a blank color sank onto the pages as a forward, allowing the story to speak for itself. This handwriting was so clearly human.

Beyond that, she knew the author. He was frightening, and she was sure his words would be even more tyrannical than the actions she'd heard stories of.

Excitement, as wary of it as she was, stirred through her chest as she started the first page. Even if he had hurt her, she knew he was a good story. Everybody who misuses power is always tortured themselves- just look at the rulers before him, who had used magic to obtain power, and were always using it to fill some ravenous void.

Belle blinked on the first word, finding a word addressed at the top of the page. "My name?" she whispered, pressing her thumbs down onto the pages and creasing them. Something climbed up her back, making her feel uncomfortable. This was intentional.

She began to chew through the words, racing them to the end of the page and then returning to the beginning again, slowing her pace so that the sentences actually held sense.

It wasn't a new experience, but she felt as if she were the only living person in this whole new land...

Rumpel sat in the waiting room, hiding his head inside his arms. His elbows pointed into the wooden table before him, keeping his pose steady and compensating for his untimed breathing.

If Belle had glanced through the vertical stretch of window next to her door, she would have seen him, stark and hunched over.

But what she wouldn't have known was that although he'd promised not put himself in this ever-losing situation, and though he knew it was a poor decision to pressure Belle into feeling something because of his presence, he couldn't stay at home and wait. Dread still swallowed him, but he wanted to be afraid of the monster, not of its shadow.

Though he trembled, some of the strings making him quiver weren't controlled by fear. The idea of her eyes glazing over the words he had written, and pictures of them forming inside her mind, and eventually memories leaping to the surface of her recollection [i]fascinated[/i] him. It excited him so much that suddenly it was unimportant whether Belle remembered right now, because she was just as powerful when she didn't love him as when she did.

Rumpel let his head go and jumped up, his heart flipping in his chest.

He was drawn to the things he wanted to control. Typically.

He was attracted to the things he kept in a cage because they reminded him of his own power. He felt ardent affection for the objects that he had taken from the hands of dead kings and for the people that honored him because they were afraid of what would happen if they displeased him.

But this was different... for the first time since he learned how to use magic, he loved because of the [i]being[/i], not because of his relationship to her.

Smiling at the creases of his wrinkled face, Rumpel walked right in front of Belle's door- opening.

Hair wrapped up at the top of her head in a messy, dark brown bun, she bowed and solicitously closed the door behind her, his journal cradled under her arm. He felt a jolt of panic travel through him, not ready to confront her about their non-mutual truths.

A dark blue sweater was buttoned over her body, and she comfortably hid her hands inside the sleeves, which she then used to hoist the book up for him to see.

"I saw you out there," she nodded, her voice quietly trying to ease into conversation. Her eyes avoided his, toying with the few details on the cover of the notebook. "At first I... thought that this was some secret file supposed to tell me what's going on, but." She paused.

Belle mopped the underneath of her eye with the edge of her sleeve, dabbing it darker. Rumpel hadn't even noticed she was crying.

"I don't know what's going on. But I want to talk to you about it."

Rumpel flexed his fingers inside his left palm, feeling like she was holding onto the string tied around his heart, not even knowing which cords did what. She looked up and caught his eye, reddened and teary. He suddenly felt that there were many more than just one string attached to his emotions.

"I want to remember," she quivered. "I want to know the truth, but you're the only one who knows anything."

Rumpel regarded her intensely, grabbing hold of the other end of the notebook. "You don't remember?" he asked, looking across to Belle's hands, which were tightly gripping the book as if she didn't want it to belong to anybody else.

"I don't," she squeaked, taking a sharp breath. "But what you wrote about sounds so beautiful. I don't want it to be fiction."

"It's not," he quickly answered, eyes jumping all around the floor. If she didn't remember, that meant that the potion had failed. That meant that the memories didn't exist to her. They weren't buried in her mind, inaccessible to consciousness. They were gone. She would never be able to think of it as anything more than a story that he insisted was true.

"Rumpelstiltskin?" she appealed, lowering her eyes to raise his sight.

Rumpel let go of the book and met her inspecting gaze. She was weak and confused, and he was all she had to hold on to. "Of course," he answered, softening his voice. [i]Of course[/i] she would need him now, when there were no other options. But what about when after months had passed, and her memories refused to return? Then, what would she want from him?

Belle looked down and then back at the door to her room. "Let me just get my stuff, okay?"

"No," Rumpel quickly countered, his hands clasping over hers but barely touching. "Let's stay here. " He swallowed his smile and tilted his head to see her exact expression, thinking that it could be okay if he made this all about her and not about him, then followed her into the only room of this world that she knew.


	13. Reconstructing Her.

Belle's legs were draped over the side of her bed, bare, but wrapped in the thin blankets that she twisted around her with her toes.

Habitually, Rumpel's mind told him to reach out and place a hand on her leg, but he pulled it back into his lap when he realized the compulsion wasn't appropriate. He was sitting in the chair that she'd been reading his journal on, his arms folded between his legs and ears donating all their attention to Belle. Above him, she spoke through tears.

"I miss my father," she whispered to end an unorganized tangent, tightening her hold on the blankets clutched in her palms. "If this is some kind of world you've made with magic, I won't be upset. But please let me just see him again."

Rumpel sighed, turning to the desk and placing two fingers on the book she'd left open. His cane leaned against the table, having been brought in after-the-fact from the waiting area.

"It's not a world I made up," he answered, picking up the book to use as a silent reference. "I wish you at least remembered the Queen from our world. She brought us here with a curse." He guilty examined the patterns on the notebook, knowing that it was his intentions that ended up making her plans work. He didn't elaborate. "But I know for a fact that Moe is here. I will bring him to you."

Belle blinked, her tears clumping together and sliding down her cheeks. "Moe?" she asked.

Nodding, Rumpel opened the book and started writing with a pen holstered in an indent on the desk. When he had finished recording Moe French's number and address, he passed the open book to Belle, slipping a smile between the pages. "His name is Moe here. Although, the curse has been broken, so Maurice should suffice."

She closed the notebook and pressed it into the bed.

"It's hard to keep up," she swallowed, curling up into herself. "I don't know what any of these devices around me are, and most of them move as fast as beasts. All I know about this place is you, and all I know about you is that I've always been afraid of you." She opened her eyes and sought truth in his, studying the way he absorbed her words. "But you seem to paint such lovely images of me. And I believe them, for some reason."

Rumpel stood from his chair and walked to the edge of Belle's bed, making them closer but keeping a comfortable amount of distance. He wanted her near her, just so she knew he would be pushing closer to her all of the time.

"You... you're sure you don't remember anything? Not even a tickle?" If the potion had worked, she would have recalled immediately. But somehow, something urged him to keep prying, convinced that perhaps the spell did work, but it was taking time to surface.

"I think..." he spoke, reaching to pick up the black notebook, "That a very lovely journal Snow White gave to me could be useful for you." He sparkled with suggestion, his heart leaping at the way her eyes narrowed in competitive question, the way he knew them to. "It would keep your thoughts organized. Do you think that would help?"

Belle nodded slowly, reaching to take the notebook from his hands. "I must keep all the data," she mused, tucking it under her pillow as soon as he'd released it.

"We'll go tomorrow," he smiled, standing and walking to the head of her bed. "And I'll teach you everything. But you should rest now." He hesitated, then hung his cane on the bed's wooden board, weaving it between the carved decorations. "You'll know I'll be back now," he promised, and limped out of the door with his hand catching his steps.


	14. Exchange of Security.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for a MASSIVE gap in updating. I've been using my old writing site lately.

Rumpel presented the notebook to her unwrapped, so blank and hollowed that it almost made him feel raw to look at after filling the other with every detail of his story. But Belle grabbed it with both hands, drawing it into her chest.

They left the hospital earlier than the moon had and Rumpel drove her to her father's home, faintly trembling at the idea of a familiar face.

Belle's father wasn't his friend. In fact, Maurice reserved disdain for the man who stole his daughter and made the triumph of a kingdom obsolete. And even if Belle couldn't remember, the man had almost destroyed Belle's memory just to break her infatuation with Rumpel. He didn't trust Maurice's influence over Belle's perception of him.

But Rumpel's tendency towards selfish intent was in combat with the knowledge that Belle needed to be assured of her dad's existence in this world, no matter how much disdain that person harbored for her partner. To love her meant to allow her to keep growing, and without any relations, she would be trapped in instability.

There was something else bothering him- while Belle was presently growing new experiences and making new memories, there was still an intangible gap in time between the "before" and "after." The entire center of her timeline was invisible to her, and yet, she was adding onto it, but never filling it in.

He wondered what that would do to her.

When they pulled up to the house, Belle excitedly opened her door before he'd completed the stop. He smiled ruefully as she grinned at him and jumped out of the car; this was probably the first thing she'd ever looked forward to in this world, and indeed was something she knew was concrete.

He stayed behind and watched her stifle with nervousness at the foot of the property, then tentatively stumbled up the stairs to the front porch, a long tee-shirt from Rumpel's closet hiding all the details of her body. It fell long below her thighs the same way the hospital gown had, but plain black, inconspicuous and hintless.

Her steps seemed heavy, like the gravity in this world was hard for her to get used to.

Rumpel turned his eyes away when he heard the distant creak of an opening door, the glass windows of his car muffling the sound. Nonetheless, his eyes caught a glimpse of Belle jumping into her father's arms, her shirt hoisting up and revealing frilly cloth shorts hidden beneath its hem.

He focused and re-focused his eyes on random things all over the car, fickle interest in the steering wheel, his hands, car keys, the notebook that Snow had given him and Belle had left sitting on his dashboard. He wondered if he would ever see her again.

There was a tap on the passenger side window and Rumpel impulsively jolted towards the sound, eyes struggling to see through the condensation clouds his breath had steamed onto the pane. He rolled the window down, leaning over the seat towards Belle.

"Sorry," she smiled breathlessly, nodding towards the leather handbag stuffed underneath the passenger seat. "Can I grab my things?" She paused. "And the notebook. I want to be able to communicate with you while I start settling in. Do you know any magic that with make whatever I write appear in something you own?"

Rumpel smiled to himself, looking down at his hands. "Yeah," he purred, "I believe it's called email and text."

Belle scrunched up her nose and cocked her head, and Rumpel responsively shook his. "Never mind. Let's just make it anticipatory." He reached out and handed her the bag, his hand resting over hers as she strapped it over her shoulder. "Make sure to tell me everything, sweetheart."

"I will," she mouthed, squeezing his fingers and giving him another expression of regard. Then she turned back to the house, transforming her father's stern look, and heard the vague sound of Rumpel's car wheels rolling down the street.


	15. Sinking Autumn.

Golden flecks of sunlight poked through Rumpel's window, reflecting back in lines across his face. The light was dry and cold, smelling like it had recently been burned. The leaves outside his car looked the same. He hadn't realized the need for his coat until now, when the absence of warmth was around him instead of within him.

He sat parked on the edge of the street by the cafe, engine rumbling steadily. He was safely enclosed in a perimeter of heat, but the second he opened the door to enter the real world, the warm gasses would expand their molecules and float away into the cold air. He clung tightly to the steering wheel, gritting his teeth. He didn't want Belle to leave him.

His mind mediated the information and the ideals. Had he been so persistent in his longing for Belle that she had been influenced to comply? His mind was so relieved and euphoric from his intense wishing that he hadn't stopped to find it strange, given the reality, that she was leaning to him the exact way he wanted her to.

Her love was transcending all former knowledge and context.

... And it made no sense.

Rumpel tried to physically shake away the thoughts, seeking to be independently _thankful_ for the way things were. But logic dominated his relief. Either his spell had worked, and she was aware of her affection for him without the proper details, or she was creating an ideal world for _herself,_ too, filing in information that came from her own imagination.

He shut his eyes tight, ready to go home. He thought having her back would be beautiful and enriching. But he felt exhausted. Exhausted and terrified.


	16. Back Through the Door.

Belle stood timidly at the front door of her father's house, fingers fidgeting between the sleeves the long, blue coat that the wind continued to blow around her hips. She stared at the street expectantly, hoping that Rumpel had been successfully summoned by her father. "Moe" had shown her how phones worked, but she was too nervous to try one herself.

Maurice had exposed her to a lot of information the past couple of days. He'd taken her shopping for clothes and bedroom supplies, introducing the market-less merchant system this world operated on. He'd also told her about electronics and machines, which were easy to name but harder to explain than a spell- yet incidentally had nothing to do with magic.

Belled craned her neck and looked beyond the street at the cars that passed by. She wasn't frightened by them; they were just like coaches. Even her first ride in Rumpel's didn't provoke any memorable anxiety. She'd seen them on television all the time.

But she still felt confused when she looked at the air. With all those messages and electricity flying around, shouldn't the sky be heavier? How did they get words and voices to be invisible?

Her questions were paused by the sight of a familiar silver vehicle rolling up to the curb and parking against the walkway of her house. Her mind now busied by the new stimulus information, Belle squinted her eyes and leaned forward, moving her hands to the over-sized pockets hanging around her thighs. She tried to make out details of the driver.

Then Rumpel's hand reached to the passenger's side and popped open the door from the inside, his head peeking out to smile at her.

Belle rejected her unsettled thoughts about the sky and ran down the steps on her toes, her new buckled shoes sounding loudly on the stone ground. She dove into Rumpel's car, pulling the door tight to preserve the heat inside.

-

Stars were flecked against the grid on Rumpel's windshield, which both reflected the light and let it illuminate the inside of the dark car. Surrounding the vehicle was a canopy of tree tops climbing a pathless hill, but the leaves parted to form a clearing at the top of the slope, letting Belle and Rumpel see the dome-like sky and rosy swell of household lights in the city below.

"Did you bring the notebook?" Rumpel asked eventually, turning to face Belle, whose eyes were focused on the houses below.

Belle shook herself into focus and cleared her voice. "No," she smiled regretfully, folding her hands into her lap. "I've been... fairly busy learning about technicalities. I have another notebook just for writing down the names of things and instructions to make them work. This is a quite a complex place."

Rumpel grinned, reaching a hand out on top of hers. "They all seem to be," he murmured.

Belle sheepishly looked up at him and swiftly pricked a kiss against his lips. Then her shoulders recoiled and she slipped back into the seat, her fingers wrapping committedly over Rumpel's. She smiled tentatively, looking down at her hands and becoming quiet.

Letting her fingers go, Rumpel raised his hand and nudged Belle's face back into his line of vision, steadily amused but trying to keep his expression harmless. "I'd like to be platonic, love," he hushed, letting his hand rest against the bottom of her chin. "At least until your footing is a little better. I don't want you to be reliant on me if there is nothing else grounding you."

Belle nodded quietly; and almost imperceptibly snatched his hand out of the air and pulled it close to her, crashing her lips against his and making his last few words obsolete.

He reached out and put his hands on her shoulders cautiously. He could only appease her, and that was as much as he could allow himself right now.


	17. Quills.

Belle was curled up inside her bed sheets, hands sore from where the pen had made callouses over skin that was thin and frigid. She gripped the handle tightly between two fingers, the flimsy plastic containing a slim tube of dark ink, which came out onto the paper in clumsy letters, handwriting that looked much different than anything she'd ever written with a quill.

She was still wrapped inside her heavy coat, although Maurice had told her that there were ways of heating the house that didn't even involve tapestries and chimneys.

But she also clung to the jacket for the particular scent that Rumpel had left on her clothing, a spicy swirl of smoke that weaved itself within with the fabric. She pressed her nose down to her sleeves and inhaled it, then returned to the paper, hoping the combination would unlock memories she knew had to be _somewhere_ in her mind.

Belle glanced down at her words and blushed. They sounded girlish and needy, even just through a quick scan. She'd always wanted to be a hero, not a damsel. This was definitely the latter.

Irritation suddenly crashed through her. Rumpel's story about their past was hardly even focused on their relationship; it was mostly details of the brave moves _she'd_ made during times when everything was uncertain to her. And she could remember none of it. How did any of it even matter if she couldn't confirm it was true, and feel changed because of it?

Belle's pen surged out in front of her, releasing words upon words onto the paper.

_I'll_ write my own past, she thought, her letters crashing into each other as she struggled to pair Rumpel's words with her own ideas about herself. _Then it will matter. At least to me._

-

She woke up dizzy and off-center, the jacket now feeling uncomfortably swollen with heat. She tore it from her shoulders and squirmed underneath the thin covers, pushing the notebook and pen away from where they'd fallen in her sleep. Somebody had shut the light off; she suspected that Maurice was worried about her.

In her mind, Rumpel came to the bedside and took her coat and books from the floor, arranging them into neat piles within his arms. Then he placed a hand on her shoulder and kissed her through the bed sheets, taking his place as her guard through the night.

In her room, the notebook lay open on the ground, turned to a page that illustrated her growing imagination of her and Rumpel's time together. The visions swirled around her head and dragged her deep asleep.


	18. The Spilling Over.

"I've been writing about us."

Rumpel's face lit up gently and he reached over Belle's notebook to place a hand on her shoulder.

"That's great, sweetheart," he smiled, nuzzling himself across the car seat and pressing the corner of his face to her cheek. "Is it in here?" He tapped the surface of her notebook, fingers idly slipping between the cover and touching the protuberance of ink on the paper. He was enticed by the idea that his skin could feel the words, but his mind could not yet derive their meaning. Still, the meaning existed, even if it was temporarily closed off to him.

Belle nodded curtly, a thin smile spreading with pink across her cheeks. She grabbed for the notebook and threw it open, revealing letters that were tall yet curled, crisp and concise as if each had been hand-picked and thought through as she looped each individual letter.

Gracing the page with his hand, Rumpel bent down to look at the words, his fingers lingering on the edge of the paper.

"It's... mostly about you," Belle admitted hesitantly, feeling bashful to have him looking at the words while above her.

Rumpel lifted his gaze and squeeze Belle's arm, approving with verve. "It is?" he asked indulgently, projecting her timid expression onto his own face with a few affable blinks. "Does that mean it's doing you good to have me around?" He flipped through a few pages absentmindedly, watching her eyes but flippantly glancing down at the notebook until the pages in front of him started looking blank.

Moved by enthusiasm, Belle jumped in Rumpel's hands and turned the book back to the first page. "Well, yes," she answered, "But mostly, I wrote about our past."

Suddenly perplexed, Rumpel's innocent blinking took on a confused quality, his head tilting as he scrutinized Belle's face. "The past?" he asked softly, looking rapidly from Belle to the book. "You... remember the past?" he restated, voice dubious.

Belle shook her head very quickly, not wanting to encourage the wrong ideas. "No," she clarified, "I mean, I wrote stories taking place in the past." Her eyes glazed over with the fantasies she'd composed, allured by the possibility of it all. "About how we used to dance in our garden, and how the first night in your castle you designed a perfect room for me, and how you took me on adventures through the Forbidden Woods and we fought side-by-side..."

When she saw how Rumpel was looking at her: disbelief and disgust, Belle bit her tongue briskly, drawing back into her chair. "Did I do something wrong...?" she questioned, eyes narrowing.

Before she could make any hasty justifications, Rumpel had leaped up and knocked the notebook onto the car floor, grabbing her by her shoulders and breathing hard onto her neck.

"You do not make up stories," he growled, fingers tightening against her skin. "You do not know what happened. You do not pretend you know what happened."

He spoke through his teeth, voice elevating with each syllable. Belle tried to back away into the the plush car seat, but Rumpel held onto her shoulders with a tight clutch, making it impossible for her to retreat.

"I'm sorry," she yelped back helplessly, wrapping her hands around his wrists and trying to pull him away. "I didn't mean it. I just..."

Then Rumpel's fingers slid up towards her neck, the indents of his fingers fitting perfectly around the bruises left from her attack at the hospital.

_Then she remembered._

She remembered Rumpel creeping up to her as she read in the waiting room; Rumpel wrapping his fingers around her neck and squeezing her until she started to see speckles of black and white; his hands clutching her throat until she couldn't see anything anymore, and then seeing nothing until she woke up in the hospital bed later, confused, remembering her past in the Enchanted Forest.

Unable to control her fear, Belle started screaming and writhing until he let her go, eyes clenched tight but still streaming with tears as he slid back and gaped in horror, hands rising to his lips in terrified regret, then reaching out carefully to touch her arm.

"Belle..."

Belle slapped his hand away, coiling up in the passenger's seat and sobbing her words through. "You tried to kill me," she screeched, the memory of his hands on her throat in the hospital so sharp that seemed even more real than this moment. "You-"

Rumpel shook his head feverishly, crying, "No Belle! Never! Neither right now or back in our old world, whichever you mean." His voice was pleading. "Never, Belle, I never did."

Tugging the door to the car open, Belle tore out of his vehicle, falling onto the grassy hill that they'd been visiting the past couple of days. As she fumbled away, Rumpel heard her yelling about being attacked by him at the hospital- the _hospital_?

He didn't know what to think.

He spent the next hour looking for her, first on the dirt path down the hill, then on foot through the woods, but she wasn't anywhere.

And then Sheriff Swan found _him_ , her handcuffs open and ready for his wrists.


	19. China.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh. I forget to update this story.

Rumpel cupped and uncupped his hands, focusing on the lines that trailed up his skin, showing age in the most subtle ways. At intervals, he would shift his weight and become aware of the hard bed below him; the informal silver-chrome bars affront him, but then his attention would fade, focusing back on the paths of lines that concaved in his flesh.

This was the second time he'd ended up here- both times were related to Belle. But he didn't have fine china this time. He didn't have the comfort of ignorance to believe Belle was only a memory, an idealized concept, anymore.

Magic lingered behind the lines on his fingers, but he did not extend them to melt the iron bars or shoot fire at the lock. Magic was dormant now, stored up but blocked by his tightly closed pores.

He lent his head down.

He knew she was out there, missing, being searched for by the woman who had locked him up. Swan believed her disappearance had to do with him.

And... after all, it had.

-

The clash of a door jolted Rumpel to his feet, his nerves suddenly open and tingling with the urge to conjure magical weapons from inside his flesh. He raised a ball of fire inside his palms, hands shaking against the heat of the flame.

"So?"

The taunting voice lowered his hands, magic settling back down into his pores. The fireball he'd been conjuring was quickly extinguished- but he nearly forced it back up when he saw her walk into the room.

Regina stepped into the light.

She tapped her fingernails against the office's stone walls, long and shimmering like black claws. Her eyes played with the sight of him locked up again; once more, she was on the outside of the bars, and her smile withheld something she knew he'd pay to have.

"See what happens when you try to get people to remember?" She intrusively smirked, keeping a distance away from the cell. "Sometimes they remember things exactly the way they should, and not the way you plan it." She shrugged flippantly, dragging her nails down the wall. "But you've always used magic to manipulate people. What did you expect?"

Rumpel lunged forward and grabbed the iron bars, his teeth barely unclenching when he spoke.

"What did you do?" he growled, twisting his fingers over the iron that was starting to melt in his fist.

Regina laughed slightly, leaning back to look at him.

"Look at you... you can barely control yourself," she mused, rolling her eyes and reaching into her pocket to bring out a jar of blue polish. She pouted. "Must you really be so upset with me? I merely warned her of who you really are. You can say it was a prelude to what you would have done to her." She grinned and squeezed her hands around her neck, pretending to choke herself. "I didn't know that smearing this stuff all over my palms would maker her think _you_ did it."

Helplessly, Rumpel stared at the concoction. Pro-memory Serum, mixed with his blood, his fingerprints, and magic. And when he'd touched the skin where Belle was choked by the hands wearing the potion, she'd...

"I'm really not surprised," Regina taunted, smirking at the corner of her lips. "If she remembered... you must have had your hands around her neck." She dropped the bottle and her smile at the same time. "You deserve to have her bear that memory."

Rumpel tore the steaming bars from their hinges and threw them aside, his body thrusting forward. He flew into a hasty cloud of magenta smoke, Regina's body having vanished into the swirling air. At his feet, the vial of blue liquid gently rolled back and forth.

He stood there, magic tearing at his flesh, but forced the power away and fled quickly from the station.


	20. The Woods.

Belle stumbled on branches that jetted up from the soggy forest floor, her heartbeat drumming against her ears. She had fallen a couple of times, and dirt was caked to her palms and underneath her knees, soaking her clothes as the frantic movements churned more soot all over her body.

Tears were caught between her eyelashes. The slash of the wind against her face was icy enough to keep her eyes glued close together, leaving her vulnerable to rocks and trees that she didn't see rising in the landscape before her.

The Earth was all tones of dark green and shadowing, making it hard for her to see where she was going.

Her mind was layers of confusion and fear, making it impossible to understand what she was running _from_.

The image of Rumpelstiltskin choking her wavered in her mind, fading with every fall, but she still ran from it. She ran from the desperate thought of never understanding where she came from. She ran to fill up the void in her mind where memories should be, and faltered over every blank line where words should have been.

Belle chased herself nowhere, and finally collapsed on a bed of hard, frozen leaves, her mind trailing over exhaustive details, but finding no new rationale to make up for all the lost time. She tried to think about the way words traveled invisibly through the air in this world, from cellphone to computer, and she wondered what words might be passing over her now.

Her breathing was steady when the flashlights beams scanned her body, and the search party raced towards her. They carried her silent body away, to the only place they knew.

-

He ran to the only person who had ever helped him. There was one final thing to do with his magic- heavy in price, but completely unequivocal.

Snow knew it was bad when he answered, "Well, it won't kill me."

Rumpel clutched his head between two closed fists, his body sunken helplessly into Snow's couch. Pressed against the coffee table, his knees shook, ready to spring up as soon as they needed to. His voice was coming out in raspy breaths, exhausted from using magic after so long without conjuring as much as a spell.

"I need your help," he pleaded.

He lifted his head from his lap and his eyes pierced Snow's stoic body, which was arched before the sofa in blatant concern. She took him in, his hair limp and his eyes bloodshot. His clothes seemed drenched in rain or sweat, and they hung around his body pointlessly, vibrating from his full-body shivers.

Snow shook her head and broke the trance, closing her eyes to avoid seeing his helpless expression.

"I can't do that, Rumpel," she whispered, walking towards her bed and falling onto it in frustration. "It's just too much of a last resort. It's- it's dangerous, it's too permanent."

Fueled, Rumpel rose from the couch and hooked his fingers together, pressing his fists violently against his chest.

"Yes. This is a last resort," he hissed, his eyes dilating wildly, hands shaking as he jabbed them back and forth against his body. "Do you understand how _fragile_ the memory is?" he spat, "She's already been intentionally influenced twice. _Twice_. That doesn't even take into account the magic on the town line."

Snow stared at him, her eyes curved downwards in empathy. He spoke as if she was not there, and as if he needed to revoke all the power she reserved as a person.

"I don't have time," he continued, bending forward and holding his confidant's eye contact, vehemence flaring with formidable intensity. "I will only allow three incantations to penetrate her mind; she doesn't deserve to suffer any more than that. So the last effort _must_ truly _work_."

Rumpel's breathing cut off and he wobbled back down into the sofa, eyes collapsing under his eyelids. "The danger is just a prediction of its effectiveness," he breathed, lolling his head painfully to the side.

Snow watched him wordlessly, thoughts rolling through her mind, but not providing her with any alternatives either.

Then, uncertainly, she got to her feet and padded quietly towards the couch, her lips quivering. She contained her voice because of the threat of tears, but she placed a hand on Rumpel's shoulder. When he looked up at her, she nodded.

"Go get Belle," he mumbled vulnerably, leaning back into the couch with eyelids shut over his own tears. Consciousness swam back and forth between his eyes, but he was certain that the ruffle of a coat and a door shutting came from this room.

He let himself relax with finality, knowing what he was going to have to do. He struggled to hold onto the thing he was about to sacrifice.


	21. The Vat.

His body was impossibly heavy, but leaning on his cane, Rumpel managed to pull his weight to his feet and limp out of Snow's apartment, hardly able to support the heaviness of the door as it crashed upon his shoulders.

Rumpel winced all through the road from Snow's house to his own, his bones aching and limbs exhausted. He forced the fatigue out of his mind and pressed down on his cane, hitting the pavement with heavy strides that he hoped would push him forward. His mind would rebel against the idea of magic, and he couldn't risk backing away from an impenetrable plan. So he focused his aim, and shut out all the thoughts of conflict.

When he got to his porch, the white boards sounded under his feet, he stopped and listened to them creak, paying attention to details that outlined his house.

Rumpel's eyes sank in sadness. He remembered the first time he'd driven Belle home. When coming back up his steps, he considered the idea that she'd see his house sometime, and fill it again; make it a comfort to open up the locked doors.

Anger pressed against his skin, and he shoved the front door open, the familiar scents of his house triggering memories. He was hyper-aware of everything surrounding him- he knew that it was his last chance to be.

The main room opened up and he closed the front door behind him. A stairway spiraled upstairs, and he could see the door of his study opened, still ajar from when he'd left with the hospital documents. How useless all of his collected blackmail felt now. How powerless it all was, now that he wanted something more than they could offer him.

Rumpel ignored the stairs and limped into his home, rounding the corner to his living room and following it through the door frame to his kitchen.

Against the wall was a tall refrigerator, and Rumpel dove at it with his body, its contents rumbling as he made contact with it. It took the exertion of his whole force, but he slid it from the wall, and panting, drew back to see the door that had been hidden behind the appliance, its wooden designs looped with fleur-de-lis and vines that were carved up the oak.

He sighed, gripping his cane in his fists. Then he tightened his hold on the handle and screwed it off, the curved edge popping off and clattering onto the floor. He tipped the hollow pole emotionlessly, and a brass key slid out of it and onto the floor.

Leaning down, Rumpel snatched it and examined it. He hadn't ever needed it before.

He rammed the key into the lock of the hidden door. The wood accepted it and seemed to sigh; the room was filled with the sound of shifting metal. Unlatched, it swung open and revealed a lightless staircase traveling downwards to the basement. Rumpel stepped into the musky dark opening.

The unique aroma hit him the second he crossed the threshold. _Magic_. It was unlike any other scent. His skin breathed it in through opened pores, and he felt a surge of power jolt through his chest, making his legs feel young and his body new.

This was his vat. This was the remainder of all the magic he'd salvaged from the old world, waiting for his time of desperate action. He knew he'd always turn back to magic.

It was his crutch. Even now, his damaged legs no longer ached with pain.


	22. Cutting the Charms.

Before Rumpel could even take his first breath of magic, he sat down with a sheet of paper, his instructions and diagrams beginning to cover the blank page.

He instantly wished there was a better way of doing this, in such a way that connected him to Belle or Snow. It could be in the original notebook that he'd presented to Belle, or the one that she had written her fantasized memories in. It hit him with a pang. He hadn't even looked at her writing, and now the journal was locked away in his car on the hill, her stories tossed carelessly under the passenger seat.

The plumes of charms swirled past him, wrapping around his fingers like rings. Magic played with the strands of his hair and tried to pull his hands from the paper, tempting him to come taste the world he'd been pulled from.

But he shook his head, pressing the thick pen firmly to the paper.

Nonetheless, he could almost feel his stature rising back up to meet his full height. His hair was smoothed around the nape of his neck, which he raised in pride. The clothing he usually wore wasn't hung around his waist, but he felt paramount; the promise of magic cloaked his entire body.

_This is to you, Snow._

_You will need instructions to make this work._

He scratched the ink slowly, eyes narrowed. He did not want to risk sentiment. These were to be guidelines, not goodbyes.

_You will show up here with Belle, and I will seem to be asleep. But that is not so. I will be devoid of all my memories._

_Do not be alarmed. I do not know if I will respond as clueless or hostile. I anticipate my memories of speech will be gone, as will all my developed skills. I may not return to consciousness again. Thus, do not waste your time trying to resuscitate me. Get Belle into position._

_The potion I'm creating works electrically. It's an ionized substance that, with rubber tubes, I'm going to be attaching to my forehead. Magic, in this case, is only a catalyst. The substance will attach to the axons in my mind and cause synaptic firing, at which point all of my memories will be released in one big flood of chemicals. The recollections will travel down the tube attached to me, go into the vat, and fill the potion._

_In essence, I'm draining my brain of everything it has ever learned. I want you to attach Belle to the machine, Snow. It will not harm her. At that point, she'll be given everything that exists in my mind now, and will have no confusion about the past._

_Make sure this comes to pass. Or else, I have truly lost everything._

_I thank you for your service, Snow._

_The Dark One._

He tilted his head as he signed it, aware of the title he had used to identity himself. A slight smile slipped onto his lips, and he placed the pen vertically over the paper.

There were ingredients to gather. He stood and made his way to the potion cabinet.

-

Belle thrashed in the hospital bed, limbs restrained by the white sheets that wound like bars over her wrists. Her legs kicked out wildly, mimicking her hands, but whenever a doctor tried to help her, she seemed to be completely oblivious to what she was doing, her brain asleep but muscles frantically struggling for consciousness.

Snow watched from a corner of the waiting room, glancing into the room whenever the door swung open to admit a nurse.

Her head was leaning against her cell phone, into which she spoke softly, surprised to hear Rumpel's voice sounding so clear and self-possessed. She pressed it tightly against her ear, trying to block out the sound of Belle's cries. She didn't want Rumpel to know the severity of her condition.

"They just _found_ her," she murmured, glancing across the room when a high pitched shout bounced through the walls. "She was in the woods, Rumpel. They thought she was dead."

Through the phone, she could tell Rumpel was pursing his lips, being selective about the words he wanted to use. "Then it is fortunate she's alive and well. How long might it take for you to bring her to me?" He spoke without wasting a word; it reminded Snow of when he went by the demeanor and succinctness of Rumpelstiltskin.

Something clattering sounded through the phone. "Where are you?"

"My home," Rumpel returned, followed by the noise of more objects being arranged. "In my basement, to be precise. This is where you need to bring Belle once you have her. The machine will be right beside me, and I've left you specific instructions as to how it's used. Can I still count on you?"

Snow swallowed and awkwardly pushed the dark fringe of her hair back, eyes compulsively wandering in Belle's direction.

"Yes," she finally answered, "But it may take some time. Belle is acting out and the doctors are having a hard time restraining her. I can imagine that until she is inflicted with her memories, she's going to be this violent."

Rumpel paused, and right when Snow was about to prompt his voice back, she heard him sigh. "Just make sure that she doesn't break the machine and spill the potion. If she does, everything is lost."

Before Snow could affirm, he added, "My house; the basement. You will see notes on what to do."

Then he'd hung up, leaving her alone with the desultory cries from a girl who still had no idea who she was, or what was about to change her life.


	23. The Vigilant Mind.

Making herself inconspicuous, she waited for the yelling to die down.

The lack of noise also provided for a dearth of professional supervision, and after about a half hour of no movement or clamor, Snow crept tentatively into Belle's room.

The atmosphere hit her before anything else did. Shock reverberated through the room, carried by a wave of silence that emanated from the bed. As Snow struggled to latch the door closed from the inside, she noticed Belle, not asleep as she had presumed, but sitting on top of the bed, curled up with her head tucked between her knees.

The girl regarded Snow wordlessly, then turned her eyes back into the white blanket. Her muscles quivered, hands gripping the sheets with white force that suggested she had nothing else to hold onto. In the brief moment that Snow caught sight of them, she could tell that Belle's eyes were swollen and dark, exhausted but aware that even sleep would not solve the impossible situation she had fallen victim to.

Snow then realized how overwhelmingly _important_ her role was, and that regardless of the finality of Rumpel's plan, his extreme measures were necessary. Even death, which Rumpel had promised wouldn't be the case, could easily be overshadowed in the wake of what Regina's curse- what all-encompassing _magic_ , had done to destroy these two people.

Softly, Snow strode to Belle's side and sat on the edge of the bed, ready to invade Belle's space. She had only coercion and force to aid her in guiding Belle to Rumpel's house, and both were tactics she had hardly even experimented with.

But before she could speak, Belle released a sob, and Snow realized words were coming through the patient's tears.

"None of my thoughts come together."

The voice was withdrawn, muffled by the sheets and already very quiet to begin with. Nonetheless, it made Snow's attention focus selectively. With Belle, personality never seemed to be incidental. It trumped all circumstance. It was easy to understand why Rumpel had grown to need her so desperately.

"Everything conflicts, and I can't work it out." Belle leaned to face the other, dry hair falling across her face. "What I know of the other world. What I know about people here. I keep remembering new things, and I don't know what is true or if I'm just inventing them. None of it makes sense."

Snow's sympathy moved her to reach a hand out and grab Belle's, struck by how cold her skin was.

"This world hasn't been completely honest with you," Snow whispered consolingly. "You have been forced to remember a lot of untrue things by people using magic against you. Even the diary Rumpel gave you was coated in magic meant to help you remember naturally-"

"Magic is never natural," Belle cut her off, "Our kingdoms were run by magic, and it caused wars. It drove people insane with darkness. And when it helped, there was always some sort of catch that overruled any positive affect magic had. I think that was easy enough to see, especially in Rumpel's case."

Belle suddenly lurched forward on the bed, clutching her face right as a rush of pain filled her head, burning her with unexpected agony.

Thinking it was just an emotional response to the confusion, Snow released her grip on Belle's hand and got to her feet, feeling urgent.

"Look, Belle," she quickly declared, pulling gently on Belle's arm. "Rumpel is going to help you remember everything. I know you think magic is vile, but you _must_ know that it's also effective. I'll explain on the way, but we have to hurry."

Snow's exigency sounded like somebody speaking through a filter of water. Belle gripped her head harder, trying to harness the pain that pounded within her brain and neck. She released a cry as it bore down on her harder, cracking at her skull and forcefully releasing millions of memories that she'd been hiding deep in the association areas of her brain, suppressed somewhere that she'd never before been able to access.

The pain burst and so did the thoughts, popped into her consciousness and pushing clarity into every aspect of her imagination.

"I _remember_ ," Belle gasped loudly, digging her nails into the sheet and looking up at Snow with wide eyes.

"Rumpelstiltskin was wrong," she continued fiercely, "Magic just covers things up, it prevents you from being brave and strong. It blocks you from knowing your true self." She was breathless, slurring her words together, and then she jumped up animatedly, rocking the bed with her force. "Where is he? I need to go to him."

"Belle..."

Snow stood open-mouthed, disbelieving and stunned. And then reality crashed back on top of her. She grabbed for Belle's hand and jerked her off the bed, panic flaring up in her chest.

"We have to go now," she wheezed, grabbing her phone out of her pocket. She dragged Belle out into the cold, commanding herself to ignore the girl's confused protested.

-

Rumpel stood at his desk, calmly pouring a purple-tinged liquid into one that was almost colorless. They came together with a flicker of light, illuminating his expressionless face. Before him now stood a fishbowl-sized concentration of liquid, staggeringly blue and hooked up to two black tubes, thinly attached to white pads that he would put on his forehead as soon as it cooled.

The "vat" was placed on a wooden stool that rested next to a reclining, black chair. Rumpel slowly placed himself vertically onto it, settling his body into the last place he would ever remember.

Soon Belle would be able to remember this moment, as she would with the rest of his whole life. He knew she'd find horrors in there. He knew she'd uncover vicious thoughts that would make her feel repulsed. But he was willing to give them all to her. She deserved every piece of his life.

Rumpelstiltskin closed his eyes and rested his head back. Then he began to think, calmly and clearly. His hands folded and trembled, but he filled his head up with words, refusing to be interrupted.

_Belle_ , he thought, _You hear this now because you have my memories. How well you can make out the details, I don't know. I will try to burn these words into my brain so the memory is not forgotten._

_I am alive; I am now without consciousness, and lack any recollection of reality. I cannot live in this world as a human being if you believe I am a monster. But I also cannot live with you idealizing me. You must have these memories, because you must know who I really am. You knowing who I am is more important than my existence is._

_You quantify my existence, Belle. You give it life. I cannot go on making new memories with my brain anymore, and my personality may vanish from this world completely, but I will live on within you._

_What you do with my body is your decision. By that, I mean you can keep me alive or stop me from breathing. That's all I'll say about that._

_Sweetheart. Even if I do not recall your face, I am in perpetual awe and sincere passion towards you, which you ought to know now, bearing all my memories. This is proof that you will never be forgotten._

Rumpel opened his eyes and looked down at the potion. It was no longer circling in a milky haze, so he picked up the two wires between his index and middle fingers.

_Belle..._ he thought fervently, closing his eyes and pressing the white cloths to his forehead. _It is so **good** to speak your name to you again._


End file.
